


Gone Off Course

by reserve



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The X-Files
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Stucky if you squint, The Author Regrets Nothing, X-Files/Captain America Crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:45:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were stuck in traffic near Baltimore when she said, “you know, I really loved Captain America when I was a kid. Dad had a signed photograph of him hanging in his office.” </p><p>Mulder glanced her way, sidelong, his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Cap fan, Scully."</p><p>(It's 1995. The elusive Winter Soldier has been sighted in New York City at least three times in the past week. Mulder and Scully investigate.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone Off Course

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for posting this in parts, but I'm too excited to sit on it. 
> 
> Big hugs to [robokittens](http://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens), [ark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ark), [imochan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/imochan), and [barricadeur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadeur) who all let me spew parts of this at them via text and otherwise. I would also like to thank Netflix for currently having the X-Files on offer - what a fucking game changer, man.

 

> **Thursday, April 12th, 1:23AM**   
>  **Brooklyn, New York**   
>  **Pratt Institute Campus**

 

The dark stretch of DeKalb Avenue between the edge of campus and Vanderbilt Street wasn’t the safest at any time of day, but Michael was late getting out of the print lab. The fact that he had finished lithographs in his large portfolio—lithographs that had been given the proper amount of time to dry—made walking alone past midnight well worth it regardless. His portfolio was as big as he was, and kind of a pain to drag between his tiny studio apartment and Pratt, but he needed to get the prints in the mail first thing in the morning. He’d sold a collection of his work to an independent collector, and felt a thrumming ecstasy because of it. On the brink of finishing his degree, the sale made art school feel like exactly the right choice for the past four years.  

It was 1995, and Fort Greene was changing, had changed. Maybe not for the better, but supposedly for the safer. Michael had pretty mixed feelings about being part of the gentrification of Brooklyn, especially since he was Brooklyn born and bred; with parents still out in Rockaway. They knew the Fort Greene of the 1980s, with its crack problem and poverty, and weren’t exactly thrilled when he decided to attend Pratt, but Michael couldn’t imagine leaving Brooklyn. It didn’t matter where he lived as long as it was in the borough.

Fort Greene was a historic hot spot for the Black artistic community, and although Michael felt like an interloper most days, it didn’t stop him from feeling a swell of pride at living in the same neighborhood as Spike Lee, the same neighborhood where Richard Wright had written _Native Son_. Still, he felt a twinge of anxiety when his walk took him past a group of teenagers hanging out in front of a shuttered bodega. That anxiety was followed up by guilt, but he couldn’t help himself: he was scrawny and encumbered by his portfolio, he wouldn’t be able to run if he had to on account of his asthma and even considering the possibility that made him feel a little sick to his stomach. As was usually the case, his anxiety was unfounded. No one paid him any mind as he skirted around the teens, who were all engaged in a raucous conversation of their own. Feeling idiotic, Michael breathed a helpless sigh of relief as he got a couple blocks closer to his apartment. 

He was still distracted, his heart rate elevated, when the man stepped out of the shadows from a barely there alleyway and directly into his path. Michael startled, and lost his breath for a moment; his portfolio fell to the ground with a clunk. He felt brief remorse, but it was quickly overtaken with fear. The man before him was _terrifying_. The streetlamps did little to illuminate his face, but he looked drawn and disoriented. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and Michael could see a glint of metal on his left side, hardly visible, but he figured it must be a concealed gun. They stood facing one another for a long moment, Michael’s breath coming in short, nervous gasps, and the man uncannily silent. Then he stepped closer and Michael took a graceless, desperate step backwards. His foot caught on the handle of his portfolio and he went down hard, painfully. He landed badly on the uneven sidewalk, his ankle caught at a strange angle beneath him.

The man loomed above him, there was no other word for it. Michael could see his face more clearly from the ground, and although he looked sickly, maybe homeless, he was undeniably handsome. Beneath his hoodie he had deep set eyes, and reddish-brown hair that fell to his sharp cheekbones. A junkie, Michael’s brain supplied quickly, probably high as a kite. Which explained the dangerous, hunted impression he gave, an impression that somehow made him even more attractive. Michael had always had remarkably bad taste in men. 

“Count your breaths,” the man said, his voice gravelly and unused. “It’ll only get worse if you don’t calm down.” He moved to squat down next to Michael, reaching out with his right hand, like he meant to grip his shoulder, but Michael scrambled fearfully away despite his twisted ankle. He might have bad taste, but he wasn’t stupid. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man said, and looked momentarily unsure if he meant it, which did nothing to solidify any kind of trust between them. 

“Leave me alone,” Michael managed between ragged breaths, “I don’t have any money.” He pulled himself back up using the corner of the nearest building for leverage, and stood with his weight shifted protectively onto his unhurt ankle, his arms wrapped around his waist, covering the vulnerable expanse of his stomach.

The man made a pained, confused face and his full upper lip curled into a grimace. “I don’t want your money. Just—just let me help you.” 

He took another step forward, and this time Michael stayed put, leaning against the brick wall behind him, still on the verge of hyperventilating. He couldn’t say why, in that moment, he chose to let a potentially drug addled murderer crowd his personal space, but there was something in his hurt expression, in the slight slope of his shoulders, that made Michael think _he_ was probably more in need of help than anything else, and on top of having bad taste, Michael had always harbored a soft spot for charity cases. 

So he stood there, and let a complete stranger run his grimy fingers through his dirty blond hair, stroking it back from his face, and counting quietly as he got his breathing under control. They must have looked like a couple who couldn’t wait until they got home, they way they were standing so close together, and Michael knew he could easily be mistaken for a girl hidden behind someone so much larger than he was. Probably for the best. 

“What’s your name?” he whispered as the seconds they stood together ticked past. 

The man’s hand had slipped behind his head and was gently massaging the sore tendons at the back of neck, a hazard of printmaking. “Hmmmm?” he murmured distractedly. Michael noticed that his eyes had fallen shut, and his left hand was braced against wall next to his hip. The man wore a black glove, which was strange for the middle of Spring, and where his sleeve rode up slightly it looked like he was wearing a thick metal bracelet. 

"I asked your name," Michael repeated, hating the tremor in his voice. 

His assailant come savior shrugged but didn’t stop rubbing his neck. “Don’t have one.” 

“Everyone has a name,” Michael said lightly, then laughed at himself a little desperately. 

The man shrugged again. “You can give me one, if you’d like.” His eyes were still closed, and his voice was very soft. Up close Michael could see his pores, the dark circles under his eyes, and the shadow of a beard. He had a faint blemish just above his left eyebrow. Feeling patently foolish, Michael realized he was was probably the most handsome man he’d ever been this close to, with or without a name, and the surge of recklessness that followed was intoxicating. He’d certainly picked up strangers before, but never like this.

“I’m Michael,” Michael said instead. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” 

The man reached his left hand into the pocket of his hoodie and came out with a crumpled wad of cash, nearly all twenties with a few hundreds thrown in. “I’m looking for a boarding house. There…” he paused, and his forehead wrinkled in concern. “There used to be one around here, but...but that was a long time ago I think.” 

Michael frowned and closed the man’s hand over the cash, guided it boldly back towards his pocket. “I live just around the corner,” he said, “why don’t you stay with me? Tomorrow you can find your boarding house.” It was probably a terrible mistake, and for some reason he didn’t care at all.

The man studied his face, and touched his cheek gently with his knuckles. He looked so intent, like he was searching Michael for something, a sign of deceit or maybe familiarity. He was silent for a very long time, and then he said, “okay,” and shoved his hands back into his pockets. 

“Okay-aay,” Michael said. “Let me just get—”

“I’ve got it.” The man said gruffly, and grabbed the portfolio off the sidewalk. Then he stood there waiting, stock still, for Michael to lead the way. 

“Okay,” Michael said again, and together they walked the final few blocks to his home in silence. The man had the steadiest gait he had ever seen on a person; he walked with purpose, with poise, like a giant cat stalking unseen prey. Michael wondered, briefly, if he was the prey. Then a car backfired and the man maneuvered in front of him, shielding him, faster than seemed humanly possible. Michael realized the man was protecting him; that everyone and everything else was prey. 

They made it to his studio without further incident. 

“It’s the third floor,” Michael said, as he unlocked the first, and then the second door into the brownstone building. Once it had been a single family home; now it was all partitioned off into studios and a railroad or two. Perfect for college students. The man trailed his hand over the doorframe, and along the banister like he’d never been in a apartment building before. He looked melancholy, and less scary in the yellowish stairway lighting, and Michael felt sorry for him, felt sure he’d made the right decision. 

“This is so familiar,” the man said, when they were inside at last. “It’s like something out of a dream.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that about this place,” Michael replied. He stashed his portfolio carefully on his big drafting table. It was the largest piece of furniture in his apartment aside from the bed. “Do you want a beer?” 

The man shrugged, so Michael took out two bottles, and after opening both in turn he handed one to his strange houseguest and perched himself on the end of his bed. The man stayed standing, just to the left of the table, assessing the room. 

“There’s only one bed,” he said. 

Michael felt himself flush. “Yeah, I….” He pulled his lower lip between his teeth and worried at it for a moment. That man’s gaze dropped almost immediately to his mouth filled Michael with a strange sense of relief. “If that’s a problem, we can—”

“I don’t mind,” the man cut him off, then he put his beer down on the table, and walked over to the bed with deliberate movements. He telegraphed his intent well before he sat down next to Michael, whose heart rate had kicked up again. 

“You’re beautiful,” the man said. He cupped the back of Michael’s head with his right hand, and brought their mouths together into a crushing, heated kiss. After that, there wasn’t much talking at all. 

 

> **Monday, April 16th, 9:30AM**   
>  **Washington, D.C.**   
>  **J. Edgar Hoover Building**

 

"These are the times that try men’s souls, Agent Scully,” was the first thing Mulder said to her when she got to the office. 

Dana Scully smiled in spite of herself. “Thomas Paine. But I don’t recall you being much of a philosopher, Mulder.” 

"I’m not," he said, "but someone must have been." 

The file he threw down onto his already cluttered desk was thick, and old. Older than most of the unsolved detritus that made its way down to their portion of the world. Scully squinted at the faded script across the manilla, and made to reach for it, but Mulder playfully knocked her hand away with a balled up piece of paper.

"It’s a ghost story. Not your style."

She snorted inelegantly. “Please, like that’s ever stopped you.”

Mulder kicked his feet up on the desk and tugged the folder further away from her and into his lap. He had that self-satisfied smirk on his face, the one he got just before he shared something especially outlandish with her. Scully raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest, leaned back against a sturdy filing cabinet.

"How familiar are you with Dr. Erskine’s work?" Mulder abruptly shifted gears, and tilted back on his chair. 

"Abraham Erskine? The architect of Project: Rebirth, and….” Scully paused, knew where at least half of where was going. “Creator of the so-called ‘Super Soldier Serum’? He’s not exactly a state secret anymore.” 

”The details are still highly classified.” Mulder looked affronted.

"What does a long dead German scientist have to do with your ghost?" 

"Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists.”

"So he’s an X-File." Scully leaned forward trying to get a look at the documents just out of view, but Cyrillic lettering is what caught her eye first. "A _Russian_ X-File?” 

"The Winter Soldier." Mulder’s typical monotone became a portentous rumble.

 _Here we go_ , thought Scully, but what she said was, “Oh, come on Mulder, the _Winter Soldier_? That story’s older than the hills. He’s a boogeyman; a fairytale to keep green agents scared straight.” She shook her head. 

“This is different.”

“Different how?” 

“There've been sightings.” 

Scully rolled her eyes. 

“Three individual sightings in New York City alone!” Mulder jabbed his pointer finger at the file in excitement. 

“Jesus that’s not even an FBI file, is it?” 

“That’s not the point, Scully. The _point_ is that a genetically engineered assassin with a metal arm prosthetic is wandering aimlessly around the Tristate as we speak.” 

“If that is the case—which I highly doubt it is—then he’s outside of our jurisdiction.” Scully shrugged, dismissive. 

Mulder huffed, and handed the file to her. “I haven’t told you the best part yet.” 

“Where did you even get this?” 

“I have friends at other agencies.” 

“Mulder, is this a SHIELD file? This agency is barely on speaking terms with half of SHIELD.” Scully frowned down at the documents, but she knew it was a lost cause. If Mulder already had his heels dug in it would be impossible to stop him. She’d learned her lesson countless times.  

"Look, just a few hours north of us an international boogeyman has gone rogue. There's all sorts of chatter.” He started pulling out random slips of paper from all around his desk, news clippings, and what looked like message board printouts. “Byers actually picked up on it first, they say the Soldier is responsible for the JFK assassination, so it was on his radar right away. A man with a metal arm broke into a department store in downtown Brooklyn.” 

Mulder held up a grainy image.  

“And you can barely make him out on the security feed but it looks like him. It looks like the Winter Soldier. And he seemed out of it, Scully, timid. We’re talking about a mastermind assassin, a guy who scares the pants off of the higher ups around these parts. That whole ‘watch out, he’ll get you, wet work done right’ thing. So you have to ask yourself: what makes a guy like that, a guy with a goddamn weapon as a body part, wander off course. What could have possibly happened to cause someone— _anyone_ even half as strong as Codename: Winter Soldier is supposed to be—to come out into the open and let themselves be seen. It’s unheard of. It’s madness.”

“Easy: it’s not real. It’s a prank,” Scully said frankly. 

“This isn’t Scooby-Doo.” 

“Sometimes it sure feels like it.” 

Mulder made a frustrated sound. “Listen," he said, then all in a rush, "Byers said they think he’s Bucky Barnes."

Scully's eyes went wide. “That’s insane. You know that’s completely insane, and quite frankly, a little bit unseemly. Barnes has been dead for 50 years. Everyone knows Barnes is dead.” 

“Well sure, but that doesn’t change this.” Mulder handed her a faded photograph. He’d kept it apart from the file she’d been idly flipping through. It showed a young man in sepia tones; his hair was ragged and unkempt and he looked like he’d been beaten recently. It made her feel a familiar queasiness; bad doctors seemed to always have pictures of their patients just like this. The man’s chest wasn’t fully visible, but there was a glint off to the right side that looked maybe, just maybe, like it could be a metal prosthesis. But it could also be a restraint.

“It’s him. It looks just like him.” Mulder insisted. 

Scully tsked. It was a very, very sad photo, and sure, _fine,_  maybe the man bore a passing resemblance to James Buchanan Barnes, fallen war hero and right hand man to Captain America, but the likelihood of Barnes having come back from the dead as some kind of cyborg was ridiculous even for them. And she said as much. 

“That’s rich considering all the things you’ve seen. Just about anyone could come back from the dead as a cyborg.” 

Scully laughed outright. “Now you’re just pushing it. But we’ll go to New York if that’s what you want. I’m just not sure what you’re expecting to find.” 

“The Winter Soldier,” Mulder said ominously. “And anyone who’s seen him. Whiiiiiich reminds me, _we_ need to see the Lone Gunmen before we go.” 

“Great. I’m so glad. But Mulder, when we get to New York you’re buying me a dirty water dog. With sauerkraut.” 

“Why Scully, I never thought you’d ask.” Mulder grinned at her. 

 

> **Monday, April 16th, 4:15PM**   
>  **Takoma Park, Maryland**   
>  **The Lone Gunmen Office**

 

When they got to the office, Byers rapturously supplied them with more information about the elusive Winter Soldier. His excitement was palpable as he pulled out a map of New York City and showed them pinpoints where the Soldier had supposedly been seen: lower Manhattan, Brooklyn’s Fort Greene neighborhood, and Central Park of all places. 

“Looks like he’s sightseeing,” Mulder said. 

“Looks like he’s confused,” Byers corrected. “Do you have the photo?” 

Mulder pulled out the supposed picture of the Soldier and passed it over.

“Oh yeah, this is great. This is definitely Bucky Barnes. Where did you even _get_ this?” 

Mulder shrugged and Scully’s eyebrows shot up; she should have known hadn’t come with whatever pilfered official file Mulder had shown her. Sometimes it irked the living hell out of her that she didn’t know better by now. 

“Naughty, naughty,” Langly said, “keeping your conspiracy resources all to yourself.” 

“You all need a reason to keep me around,” Mulder said, palms up. “You too, Scully.” 

“Sure, Mulder.” 

“When he runs out of cases we’ll take you in, Dana,” Frohike offered from behind his computer.

“That’s very generous of you,” Mulder said. “We’re going to drive up to New York City tomorrow morning, so if you hear anything else you call me, alright Byers?” 

“Will do.” Byers nodded, and gathered up the map for Mulder and and a few more grainy security footage stills. 

“Do you really think it’s Barnes?” Scully asked, just before they left. 

“Stranger things have happened,” Byers answered. “But that seems like a cruel twist even for fate. No one even knows who the Soldier works for. It would be awfully disheartening if it turned out to be him.” 

Scully made a thoughtful sound, and Mulder guided her to the door with a hand at the small of her back. A trio of “goodbyes” and “good lucks,” followed them out. 

 

> **Tuesday, April 17th. 3:45PM**   
>  **On the road**

 

They left for New York the following afternoon in another ubiquitous Ford rental car. Mulder put on Steely Dan as they pulled out of the Rent-a-Car parking lot, and sang along loudly to "Dirty Work." Scully was used to driving with him. Sometimes he was quiet, and sometimes he couldn't stop talking. It was easy and familiar to be in the car with him, and she didn’t mind the comfortable silence that settled between them once Mulder exhausted his lungs.

Truth was, she couldn’t stop thinking about the photograph of the Soldier. She had accepted that it could very well be him, but at what stage in his career she couldn’t be sure. If he was real, then it was horrific to think he’d been tortured into becoming what he was. She pulled the picture out of the file and turned it over in her hands. There was nothing on the back, no notation. Scully hoped with great sincerity that it wasn’t James “Bucky” Barnes at all. 

They were stuck in commuter traffic near Baltimore when she said, “you know, I really loved Captain America when I was a kid. Dad had a signed photograph of him hanging in his office.” 

Mulder glanced her way, sidelong, his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel.  “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Cap fan, Scully." 

“Well, I was a Navy brat. I grew up with stories about Captain America. It didn’t really matter to me if they were completely true.” 

“So, what? It was all wartime propaganda at its finest?”

Scully thought for a moment. “I believe that Project: Rebirth happened,” she said carefully, “and I believe that it changed something about Steve Rogers, but until someone puts the serum’s cold hard formula in front of me I’ll hang on to the possibility that Captain Rogers was just...just a good man, and a good soldier—” 

“And very handsome.” 

“And very handsome.” Scully smirked. “But seriously, you saw the Lichfield Experiment. That was Cold War era bad science. Making monsters out of children and for what? It’s probably a blessing Erskine died before he was able to carry on his work and make an army of souped up soldiers. It was bound to get out of hand eventually.”

“So you _do_ believe the serum is real?” Mulder sounded just a little triumphant. 

“I believe there _was_ a serum,” Scully conceded. “And I believe that Steve Rogers stepped into a metal contraption designed by Howard Stark and stepped out as Captain America. Beyond that, I couldn’t say without actual evidence.” 

“Never change,” Mulder said, and offered her his bag of sunflower seeds. 

They would make it to New York City by sundown. 

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a throw away post on tumblr, but then people seemed into it. Tumblr is clearly the devil's work! [Come check out mine.](http://reserve.tumblr.com)


End file.
